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by zoroarks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Blood Addiction, Episode: s05e02 Good God Y'all!, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Loss of Trust
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 00:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14484666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoroarks/pseuds/zoroarks
Summary: He'd told Dean that whatever force had zapped them out of that convent, it had cleared his system of demon blood, too. No more withdrawl symptoms, he'd said: not so much as a case of the shakes.But the thing about being addicted is, there's more than a physical yearning for his poison. The rush of power that he'd found in every drop is something he finds himself craving with every second that he's alive. He can lie to his brother, but not to himself.There are two dead bodies in the convenience store, and it's far too late to come clean.





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Whenever Sam misses the demon blood, his _nectar_ , he tells himself he merely misses the concept of saving the possessed. He tells himself that he wishes he could get rid of demons without murdering innocent people, he tells himself that he is justified in thinking this way and he was always doing what he did for all of the right reasons. Oh, he can tell himself whatever he'd like, and he certainly abuses that power. But, deep down, he knows the truth. He knows that he wants to drink the blood again because it made him stronger, and he knows that his desire to be more powerful than anyone is the only real reason that he had ever considered it in the first place. Does he blame Ruby for exposing him to it? Yes, but he knows that he's at just as much fault as he is. He absolutely despises himself for it, too, and he understands why his brother seems to feel exactly the same way.

However, he wishes that Dean would trust him just a little bit more. He knows that he messed up, terribly. And he isn't asking for anyone's forgiveness - he doesn't think he ever could - he just wishes that he could find a way to regain an ounce of the trust that he once knew. But he feels certain that he never will, and that certainty feels like a knife, driving its way deeper into his heart every time he remembers that it's there. So, he avoids it by telling himself he is trustworthy. He avoids it by telling himself that his older brother is overreacting, that he's not going to fall back into old habits. Sam really does tell himself a lot of things.

He's well aware that Dean hadn't really trusted him to go out here, with all of those demons running around - who knows how many he'll just start to drink dry, right? But he'd forced the older Winchester to back down for a bit, and he now finds himself in this small convenience store, searching for salt. It's not familiar enough for him to locate what he needs with ease or accuracy, but he almost feels like it should be. Living on the road like he always has, he's spent almost too much of his life, and money, in these places. Aside from organization, they're all the same, and they bleed together. He's yet to find one that truly stands out in his memory and, although he's here for a demon-related reason, he feels certain that this won't be a different case. Why would it be?

The hunt for salt to keep the demons away is brought to a halt when he spots someone ahead - looks like a teenager, but Sam feels certain that there's more to it. He has to be sure, and he knocks something off of the nearest shelf, standing in wait while the other jumps and pivots. Black eyes. The demon charges, and Sam has to fight back, ending their brief scuffle with a stab to the throat. He doesn't have time to reflect, catching a glimpse of another figure coming at him in the nearest reflective surface. Turning around a second before it's too late, this one goes even faster, falling onto the ground next to his comrade. Panting, Sam stands a little straighter, hazel eyes clearing after a bout of mindless violence. At first, his biggest concern is the fact that he just killed two kids. Two kids, kids who he knows he could have saved, once.

Then, his eyes fall upon the blood.

It seems to him that they're bleeding too much, as if they decided to do this post-mortem in order to taunt him. Maybe he cut where he knew he would draw this much, subconsciously, but he refuses to even bring the thought up in his mind. There isn't much to think about, anyways, his entire psyche consumed by a word and all of his personal connotations for it: blood, blood, blood. That's all there is. Crimson spreads across the tiled floor, and he lifts the knife before his face, watching it drip off of the edge. Without thinking, the hunter gleans some off of the metal, using his thumb. It's on his skin, now, liquid power right before him, and that is the point where all logical reasoning evades him. Everything that happened between Dean finding out about this and the moment that he's living right now, none of it matters. The only thing that matters is the pain in his gut that's screaming at him, telling him he needs it. He needs it, and it's the only thing he needs.

Sam's body feels like it's moving without his consent, yet, he makes no move to stop it. He sucks the blood off of his finger, first, like a child searching for solace. The rest comes off of the knife, directly, throwing caution to the wind and not caring if he cuts his tongue. For a moment, the taste is alien, not right; but, after that, it's familiar and powerful and his craving is being fulfilled, but it isn't enough. There wasn't enough there, so he remedies that, dropping to the ground and sucking from the source, desperately lapping up the liquid just like a dirty vampire would. Is there really any difference? Sam looks like he's enjoying an experience that's almost orgasmic, like he forgot how it felt, absorbing something so sweet and strong and feeling all of that energy. In fact, he thinks he had. Or, he would, if he were thinking anything at all. He feels like he could stay right here forever, the previous incident with the stuff leaving his mind entirely. More. The more, the better.

But a small noise snaps him out of the dull trance, and he looks up, swaying despite the fact that he's leaned down to get more from the body. The sound is as familiar as always, a door opening, jingling a small bell as it completes the operation. Simple, but right now, it shoots terror through Sam's veins. He's terrified because his brother is right there; his big brother, staring at him like he's some kind of freak, a monster. And he is, he is, but he isn't thinking clearly right now. Not thinking, not thinking, not thinking. "Dean," the younger brother says, mouth moving on its own accord. Nothing can get him out of this, blood dripping from his lips and down his chin, soaking and seeping through his shirt. "Dean, let me explain-"

This time, he flinches, watching the door slam shut. No words. They weren't needed, but Sam still doesn't want to interpret the silence, merely kneeling on the gore-stained floor and staring at the empty doorway. He messed up. He's messed up one time too many, and right now just happened to be the worst possible time. There's no more room for forgiveness and he should know that he doesn't deserve it anyways, but he can't. Something stops him, something like bloodlust and addiction thrown into one big, horrific beast. Sam's mind is a mess. Now, be can't think. All he does is stare, and stare, and stare, oblivious to the world around him.

After an indescriminate amount of time, something hits his head, hard, and he falls down even harder, gladly obliging to unconsciousness.


End file.
